


une fête d'halloween

by kitschy



Series: life is sweet and we are growing [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, First Meetings, Gen, Halloween, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27097009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitschy/pseuds/kitschy
Summary: The French don't trick-or-treat; they party. Nadir is not going to miss out, and Erik will be a little bit glad he didn't either.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Erik & Nadir Khan, Erik | Phantom of the Opera & The Persian
Series: life is sweet and we are growing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2031100
Comments: 19
Kudos: 32





	une fête d'halloween

**Author's Note:**

> written for a-partofthenarrative's 2020 '13 Nights of Halloween' event! :~) also i had several panic attacks in the weeks before writing this so... tw for panic attack. just me projecting 😜

“No,” said Erik for the hundred-thousandth time in his life.

In his defense: Nadir was being ridiculous again. Since the beginning of the school year, the man had barely spent time at all in his dorm room, instead living at the library, various parties, and Erik’s off-campus apartment. The partying Erik had little problem with, nor did he particularly mind sitting beside his friend on the bathroom floor, cracking dry jokes as Nadir vomited his organs up. In fact, he was secretly touched that he continued to come to him despite all the other friends he must have had.

Tonight, however, the idiot wanted him to go _with_ him to a party, and Erik thought he might be the one to throw up now—and that was before even attending. If he did go, who knew what might happen?

“But it’s Halloween!” Nadir protested, hopping up to sit on a counter. Now that his shoulders had grown broad and Erik was freakishly tall, the kitchen was half the size it'd been when they were rail-thin freshmen. “Everyone is going to be dressed up. Nobody will even notice the mask.”

“I know enough pop culture to know that this isn’t a costume. What am I going to tell people I am?”

“A serial killer?” he suggested, and Erik glared. “I’m serious. It would work.”

“Are people really that lazy?” he asked pointedly. “What are you going to be?”

“Satan, but like, ironically.” Nadir grinned. “Does that mean you’re thinking about coming? Oh my God. You could be an angel. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

“No. And no!” Erik turned to open a cabinet, taking down a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “Why do you need me, anyway?” He occupied himself with pouring, avoiding his friend’s gaze. “Are all your other friends busy?” 

It _was_ a rather last-minute ask. It was seven in the evening, not a week before the party, or the day before, but on October 31st. The thing hadn’t even been mentioned until they’d been fully finished with their dinner, throwing away takeout boxes and washing utensils; Nadir had to have texted every last potential companion. If he had been as good-looking as his friend, Erik thought, he would simply have gone alone.

Nadir rolled his eyes. “I’m not that popular, Erik. Is it that hard to believe I want to spend time with you?”

“I suppose not, since you essentially live here rent-free.”

He hadn’t meant it as a barbed comment, but his friend’s thick brows furrowed briefly, one side of his mouth tugging downwards.

Erik rubbed at his neck. “Not that I mind,” he amended reluctantly. “But we’ve never done that sort of thing together. I just don’t understand why you’re so insistent now.”

“I don’t know.” Nadir shrugged. “You’ve been… having a rough time lately.” He held out his hand for a glass of the whiskey; Erik passed it over, then looked away, returning the shrug.

“Midterms. We all have them.”

“I heard you on the phone with your mom.”

Shutting his eyes briefly, he took a sip from his glass. “No worse than usual.”

“Well, we both want you to forget about it.”

“Ah.“ He laughed. “Then perhaps the party is a good idea. How can I dwell on my mother’s hatred when I’m overwhelmed by everyone else’s?”

“People don’t _hate_ you, Erik, they don’t even know you!”

“Well, that might be worse,” said Erik quietly.

For a moment, the only sound was the old heater in the living room humming away. It was a sound he had come to associate with nights he was alone for the fifth time in a week, when he was unable to focus for a strange, baseless, empty fear in his chest.

Nadir set down his glass. “Do you trust me?” he asked. Erik frowned. On those stiflingly silent nights, it was Nadir’s surprise entrances that parted the fog, his friend’s boisterous laughter—of all things—that made him feel safe again.

“Yes. Why?”

“You’re going to have fun if you go. I promise you.” Nadir lifted his glass again, swirling the whiskey around. “Drink up, change into something black”—he nodded at Erik’s grey crewneck—“and come with me, _if_ you want to. If you don’t, fine. But nothing bad is gonna happen if you do. Okay?”

What was the alternative? Before Nadir had come for dinner, he had been feeling faintly nauseous all afternoon for no reason at all, his head flitting from thought to thought so quickly it had exhausted him. Only company had soothed him, returned his appetite, and reminded him that nothing was really wrong. 

Erik was surprised at the question that came from his lips then: “Are people nice?” It sounded childish, even desperate, and he was thinking of a way to take it back when Nadir smiled.

“Pretty much everyone is nice when they’re drunk. Even you.”

Two hours and a couple shots later, Erik was in some senior’s apartment—a rich senior, he assumed, for who else would have a full wall of windows?—and surrounded by a greater population density than he’d experienced in years. Some pop song he didn’t mind was blasting from who-knew-where, his head was delightfully woozy, and there was a slight sway inside his body. Lit only by red Christmas lights strung all over the walls, people danced, talked, clapped as they laughed, exchanged glances, leaned unsteadily against walls, knocked back glasses.

And surprisingly, aside from his heart thudding in his mouth, he was all right.

It was not that _people_ frightened him, he’d reminded himself on the walk here; after two and a half years, he was almost never nervous to attend classes. No, it was the looks on their faces, the pouts of sympathy, the bright, malicious curiosity in their eyes. And in here, expressions were difficult to see. It was just bodies, young adults being young adults, and he was allowed to be there. As they stood in the doorway and took in the scene, Erik felt Nadir glance over at him.

“You okay?” he shouted over the din.

“Yes,” Erik said, and could not hear himself. “Yes,” he said again, louder, “I actually think I am.” And damn it, it must have been the wonderful dizziness, but he couldn’t help smiling at the way his friend beamed.

“Great!” Nadir said, adjusting the plastic horns on his head. “More alcohol? Can I introduce you to some people?”

“Um—”

“My friend Gilles is a music major. I think he’s here.” At Erik’s hesitation, he added, “We can wait, but he’s, like, the nicest guy.”

Erik took another look at the costumed mass before him, the stumbling and joyous assortment of vampires, animals, unidentifiable wigs, and masks—so many masks, full-face ones, even—and his chest, while still pounding a little, was not tight. He took a deep breath, just to prove he could, and as the song changed to something with electric guitar, he was suddenly thrilled by how okay he was.

And so he found himself in the kitchen talking to Gilles, who had a curly mop of hair and laughed at everything Erik said. They talked, or rather yelled, about the school’s shitty practice rooms, and Professor Lefevre’s class, which they apparently had together, and it was only after five minutes or so that Gilles bothered to ask, “So what are you? Not, like, ethnically.” They both snorted. “You know what I mean.”

“A serial killer?” Erik tried, and the other boy clapped him on the shoulder. He did an admirable job of not jumping, and a second later realized he was still okay, so drunk his head might have been full of syrup and all the more okay for that, and considering he might have been back at his apartment suffocating on nothing, perhaps he was even _good._

“That’s so fucking smart!” Gilles cried.

“Is it?”

“Totally. So smart to still let people see part of your face.”

“Thank you,” he said lamely. “Anyway. How do you know Nadir?”

As Gilles launched into a story about some concert last year, it occurred to Erik that Nadir was nowhere to be seen. He’d excused himself to get another drink maybe two minutes ago—and all right, two minutes was not a long time at all, surely he would be back soon. He tried to focus back in on Gilles’s story, but could not resist looking around, but there were so many heads of dark hair, and flashes of brown skin, that anyone could have been Nadir. Or no one. Not that he would have left.

“Oh, shit,” said Gilles, and Erik looked back over. “My boyfriend just texted, and he needs to get home. I’m gonna go, but hey, what’s your Instagram?”

“Uh, give me yours. I’ll find you,” Erik lied. Gilles spelled something out so fast it blurred with all the other words being spoken around them, and then after a throwaway _nice to meet you_ , he was alone.

A surge of something cold and sharp in his chest. No, he had _just_ been okay, and he still could be.

Nadir must have been around somewhere.

Erik turned so that he could see out of the kitchen, bumping someone’s shoulder with his elbow as he did so. “I am _so_ sorry—”

“It’s fine!” A short blonde girl smiled up at him, then moved on without another word, leaving him alone again. Maybe he could ask the blonde if she had seen Nadir. But it might seem like an excuse to talk to her, and she likely had her own friends to go find, and anyhow, Nadir had only been gone for three, maybe four minutes now. Or perhaps five or six. But he could survive five or six minutes without being babysitted. Maybe Nadir was talking to a pretty girl, or catching up with an old friend. People are nice, Erik reminded himself, Nadir said people are nice, and there must be someone else alone at this party that you can talk to, just like you talked to Gilles just now, and it felt all right, and it was fine.

But no one that he could see was by themselves. Everyone was standing with someone. He was the only one standing alone. There was a little tightness in his chest now, and he tried to tell himself what he always did when he felt nervous in public: that his face was covered and nobody was thinking about it. But he knew that already. So then there was no reason to feel this way, but as he gave the thought its attention, it grew, _why do I feel this way, why do I feel this way,_ and he found a part of himself declaring with certainty that something was very, very wrong, and the sweet instability of the alcohol turned into just the slightest nausea. He felt himself tense, and could only tense tighter, and it was coming, he was not able to control his body or his head, he was losing his grip on them—

If he could just find room to breathe for a moment. People were swarming, it seemed, into the kitchen—some food had arrived—the oily smell of it gave him a sick lurch, and he stumbled out, and no one saw.

“Excuse me, sorry,” he said as he made his way towards the apartment door, but even speaking at what felt like a normal volume, he could barely hear himself. Some rap song was playing now, aggressive and too-fast, and Erik felt all at once empty and full of shifting, whispering things, isolated and like someone was just behind him with a garrote wire in hand. Finally, the door, and his throat was tight and the inside of his head was flickering, and he pulled it open and stepped into the hallway and leaned back against it as it fell closed.

A girl was standing just across from him. In the quiet fluorescents, he became aware of just how dark it was inside his chest, and how loudly he was breathing, and how his hands, no, his arms were shaking. And a girl was standing across from him, wide-eyed, phone in hand.

“Oh, sorry,” she said. Erik’s throat was so tight that if he spoke, he would surely cry, and that was not an option. Either the fluorescents were buzzing or it was in his head.

The girl frowned and stepped forward. She moved as if to tuck her phone into her pocket, but she was wearing a white dress, some kind of faux Greek chiffon, and had no such thing. Instead, she folded her arms, asking, “Are you okay?”

Erik nodded mutely, though his chest insisted that perhaps someone had died, or there was a bomb in the basement.

“Are you sure?” she asked, and he looked away, because if she kept pressing he would be able to deny nothing. “I don’t mean to pry, so like, tell me to go away if you need to, but I think you might be having a panic attack.”

He looked back up at the girl, who had stepped closer and had large brown eyes.

“I used to get them a lot,” she said. “Should I go get you some water?”

Water might be good, he thought, but if she left, the hall would be silent again, and there would be nothing to distract him from his thoughts. They seemed to surge with terrifying excitement at the very idea, so he shook his head vigorously.

“Okay. You don’t want to be alone. I get it.” Her voice was high, light, smooth. “Why don’t you sit? Can I sit with you?”

He dropped gracelessly to the carpeted floor, and the solid ground beneath him was steady enough that he managed, “Yes.” And so, a moment later, she sat down across from him, her knees only centimeters from his.

“You’re breathing really irregularly,” said the girl. “Can you try to slow it down?” Erik inhaled as slow as he could, just like his old singing exercises, one, two, three, four, then a shocking tightness and the constriction in his chest was awful and squeezing at his heart and going to kill him— 

“Look at me,” said the girl. He wanted to be able to breathe properly. Look at her. He did, pressing his hands to the floor, a faint ache in his arms. “Okay, this is really weird, but it might work. Can you just note five things about my appearance? Like, basic stuff. Just to focus on your sight.”

“Um.” He managed a deep, shaking breath. “You have brown hair. It’s very curly. There’s a crown of gold leaves in it. You have a gold necklace, too. And you’re wearing a white dress.”

“Great.” The girl smiled. “Focusing on touch is helpful too, but that floor is super dirty, so maybe—” she offered her hands, and he stared dumbly, head thudding. “Sorry,” she said, “will that make you uncomfortable?”

He put his hands in hers, and she held on firmly. Her hands were very small, but somehow, his fingers were as thin as hers, he noted. She was right—noticing things was good. Her hands were small, her hands were small, it was a thought that he could make just a little louder than the others. His chest—but her hands were small and very soft.

“Just focus on that. Does it help if I talk?”

“Yes,” he said. “Just to—distract me, I guess.”

“Of course. Let me think of stuff to say—sorry, I’m kind of drunk. If you start thinking about bad stuff, just focus on my hands again, okay?” She squeezed for a moment. “Can you do that back?” He obeyed, but found himself continuing to hold on tight, focusing on her hands, her hands. She rubbed her right thumb over his knuckles.

“So,” said the girl, “I’m Christine, and I’m a junior.”

“Me too. I mean, I’m not Christine,” he said distractedly, “my name is Erik. I’m a junior too.”

“Cool. Nice to meet you.” Christine smiled. “Um, lemme see. This is only my second Halloween party. I’m dressed as a muse, like in mythology, but I guess it’s not that obvious. I just look… ancient Greek.” She laughed to herself, a champagne kind of sound. “I was gonna go as an angel, but that’s so cliché.”

“I almost did too.” Speaking actually helped the tightness in his throat a little, he found, if he kept glancing down at her hands in his, reminding himself of their solid warmth. “I mean, not really. My friend wanted me to.”

“That would have been funny.” Now, both of her thumbs rubbed circles on the backs of his hands. “Actually, it would have been kind of awesome. I never see guys as angels. So, like, good for you, if you can sacrifice your masculinity a little.” He managed a breathy laugh, and she added, “So what are you?”

 _Serial killer, and I left half my face showing so people could still see it._ Somehow thinking the words _serial killer,_ with their malevolent edge, made his chest jump again—her hands—he gripped them tighter, and she gripped back—he wouldn’t think about the thing. “Badly disfigured,” he said instead, and Christine’s face, which had been earnest and calm until this point, flashed with surprise.

“Oh my God. I’m sorry. But that’s a useless thing to say, isn’t it?” For some reason, she smiled again, her eyes warmer now, wider as they searched his. “Is that why you’re nervous to be here?” she asked gently. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want, but sometimes it helps me to like, rationalize about the thing that scares me. I promise you nobody cares. I mean, if I don’t know what you look like, I can’t really judge you for it, can I?”

“I guess… that isn’t quite it. I’ve learned not to think much about my face,” he told her, and saying it was ridiculously easy, but what did such a confession matter in the midst of everything? “But there are all these other things—side effects, in a way—I’m not very good with people, and I’m alone a lot, and…” Oh. Saying _that_ made his eyes sting a little, so he shrugged.

“What do you mean you’re not good with people?” She rested their hands on his knees, a pleasant weight. “You’re doing pretty good right now. Especially for someone having a panic attack. I’d just be, like, crying and totally incoherent.” When he failed to respond, she cocked her head. “I don’t know if this helps, but just so you know you’re not alone… well. My sob story is pretty different, but like I said, this used to happen to me all the time. Still does, now and then. Anyway, my dad died a couple years ago, and my mom a long time before that”—she shook her head as if to dismiss any concern—“and after my dad, I would constantly be afraid I was going to die too, or die alone. So I get the loneliness thing,” she told him, leaning forward, “probably in a different way, but seriously, I do, and you just need to know that it’s not real. You’re never alone, not truly.”

At this words, Erik could physically feel himself ease, just a little. _Not truly,_ he repeated to himself. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I promise. I’m here right now, and there are people that care about you.” He was about to inform her of the contrary when she went on: “And the cool thing is, there can always be more. Like, Halloween isn’t even a scary thing anymore these days, is it? You just have fun with people in one way or another, and you can make new friends, and they might become super important to you. I met my best friend literally this day last year, you know. And hey, we can be friends.”

Even as the words made his chest looser, even as she squeezed his hands again and he noticed they had stopped shaking, he gave her a doubtful look. “You did say you were drunk,” he said dryly, and thankfully, she realized he was not entirely serious.

“Yeah, it makes me super, like, gregarious, but I’m for real.” She grinned, showing large, white teeth, and it occurred to him that she was wearing red lipstick. How had he not registered that? She wore eyeshadow, too, gold to match the leaves in her hair and the delicate chain around her neck, and thick black eyeliner that made her brown eyes so light and clear. Certainly she had been at this party for some time, and so the liner on her left eye was slightly smudged, and her cheeks shone, but there was something artful about that. She looked alive. Happy.

“Do you feel a little bit better?” she asked suddenly. Her lips pursed in concern; full, well-arched brows drew together. Strange. Now he could not _stop_ noticing. But this technique of hers was certainly working. There was still a dimness in his chest, he could still feel the thoughts waiting to surge back—but he could control them, he told himself. To prove it, he squeezed Christine’s hands again. She squeezed back.

“Yes, I think so,” he said. “If you need to go—”

“Not at all! Let’s stay out here for a bit. I just wanted to make sure. Take another deep breath.” He did, letting it fill his stomach, dispel tension as it came out. Again, in and out, and he noticed Christine breathing with him.

She looked down at their hands, then met his gaze self-consciously. “Hey, are my hands really sweaty? I run kind of hot. I’ve been worrying about it for the past few minutes.”

Erik let go of her without thinking, then instantly regretted it. “Oh, no. Mine were, probably, though.”

“Both of ours, I guess.”

“Well, I was having a panic attack. What’s your excuse?” The joke came out hesitant, but she giggled—had he ever met anyone who actually giggled? And for a second, he felt really, truly okay, and even when the second was over, he knew he could be again.

At that moment, the door opened beside them, and he looked up to see Nadir.

“Shit.” He dropped to his knees and put a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “Thank God, Erik, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I’m so sorry we lost each other. Are you okay?”

“I am,” he assured him.

“Do you wanna go home? Watch a movie or something?”

“That might be good,” said Christine. “I mean, not that I’m gonna come with, but I mean, it might be a good idea for you, Erik. Just to relax and get your mind off things. Also, hi, Erik’s friend.”

“Hi,” said Nadir, looking between the two of them. “Nadir Khan. And you are?”

“Christine Daaé. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that name! You’re—“

“The opera girl?” Christine rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Yeah, that’s me, I—Erik?” She frowned. “Are you okay?”

He was silent, and most certainly okay, because Christine, with her soft hands and smiles, was a singer. Why that mattered so much in this moment, he did not know, but the dimness in his chest got just a little brighter, as when the sun came out.

When he and Nadir did arrive back at his apartment, there were no thoughts of watching anything—Erik was sleepy, with only a slight headache. The cool night air had soothed him, and so had talking.

“So,” Nadir had said as they’d left the building.

“Yes?”

“I—well, actually, first, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have forced you to go to that thing.” Erik had glanced over to see Nadir frowning severely as he spoke. “And then to not be there when you… God, I feel like an asshole.”

“It isn’t your fault, Nadir,” he’d said, and meant it. “I agreed to go of my own free will.”

“Maybe I should have—”

“Not left for just a few minutes? You couldn’t have stayed with me every moment.”

Nadir had sighed. “Well, I feel bad, and I’m going to make it up to you. But also…” A smile had crept across his face, and he’d raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know what you mean by that look,” Erik had muttered, looking back at the sidewalk ahead of them.

“Christine is really pretty.”

“Do you think so?” he’d replied, not thinking of the curve of her lips or her large eyes or her long, dark curls.

“I mean, don’t worry, she’s not my type. But I can probably get her number, if you want it.”

He had forced a shrug. “She said we could be friends.”

“Yeah, or you could be—”

“Nadir.” Stopping as they arrived at his building, he had held the door open for his friend before saying, “I don’t want to… get my hopes up.”

“There are a lot worse feelings than hope.” Nadir had fixed him with a meaningful look as they had waited for the elevator. “You know that better than I do. So I’m gonna send you her number.”

Now, as he flopped onto his mattress, Erik lifted his phone and added Christine to his contacts. He thought of the little smudge of eyeliner and the laugh like tiny golden bells, and there was no fear left in him, so he sent a message saying _this is erik—thank you for everything._

Before he could drift off to sleep, she replied, _anytime! i know the party kinda sucked for you, but i’m really glad you came._

 _So am I,_ he thought. But he could tell her that tomorrow.


End file.
